


Be Slave To Patience

by WildandWhirling



Category: Romeo & Juliette - Toho Stage, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, implied Benvolio/Mercutio, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22197847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: Escalus finds his lifelong conviction that he is better off alone challenged.
Relationships: Escalus/Friar Laurence (Romeo and Juliet)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: Romeo & Juliet / Romeo et Juliette Fanfic Exchange 2019





	Be Slave To Patience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellenoruschka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka/gifts).



“I don’t hold people close. It makes it easier for them to hurt you.” 

He knew that it was a lie as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Perhaps, on further reflection, the word “lie” didn’t apply. Not really. “Lie” implied that he intended to not go through with it from the beginning. More accurately, the term that he should have used was “idealistic goal.” (Terminology was, he thought, very important. It was in straight lines that they preserved themselves after the first shockwaves of the initial blast struck the earth, the line between Capulet and Montague territory just as important as the lines that designated where radioactive material still festered, burning away the rest of its life like an all-consuming torch.) 

“Is that so?” Lawrence didn’t challenge him, maintaining the air of a good natured mentor, which only strengthened Escalus’ irritation. (Doubt was deadly, after all, in the times they’d survived, all of them. Doubt was deadly still.) 

“You know as well as I do the dangers of getting attached,” Escalus said, “Getting close to someone…” He sighed, a deep, hoarse sound that came up from his very soul, precipitating a cough that he was able to smother, “There’s no use in it.”  
  
“Not an optimistic view of your own subjects,” Lawrence folded his hands in front of his stomach, patiently, like the scorched statue of St. Francis that sat just outside the cathedral, the fountain that it had once been the pride and joy of long since evaporated. 

“A realistic one,” Escalus parried, folding his own hands across his desk, the same desk that had been used by his father and grandfather and great grandfather when they’d been called to duty, as if to say _See? I can do it, too_. It was the tactic that he used on the Montagues and Capulets alike. Fear with fear, respect with respect, hand folding from the other side of the desk with hand folding from the other side of the desk. On their own terms. “I leave the rest in your hands.” 

Lawrence turned his eyes down. Anyone else might have taken it for a victory. Escalus knew better. It meant that he was changing tactics. Finally, he raised his eyes, a rich brown levelling meeting his even as he still kept his head tilted. “Not everyone in the world is out to hurt you; if you believe that, you’re letting bitterness and loneliness win.” 

“They might not mean to, but that doesn’t mean they _won’t_.” Escalus rose up from the desk, turning his back stubbornly to Lawrence. People left, people died, people let their mouths open at the wrong time. It was better this way. 

“Don’t you ever get lonely, Your Highness?” His stomach twisted. He wasn’t the one who needed to be fussed and wept over. There were a thousand others in Verona who needed it better. Weep for the Capulets, weep for the Montagues, and any poor devil who found themselves between them. Weep for the fall of society, with his nephew gleefully dancing in the ashes. But not him. There was nothing to pity in him.  
  
“Lonely?” Escalus scoffed, eyes on the view from his window. It was one of the few places in Verona that had a perfectly restored window. (Only the Capulet manor could boast the same, the current Lord Capulet’s father having commissioned them at a cost that had made his own father bend down to him and make him swear to never waste his money on such extravagance when he became prince.) In the distance, as far as the eye could see, faint, flickering lights blazed against the night, along windowsills, in firepits, in the sparse electric lights that lined the streets (the pride of his grandfather’s time), a constellation of evidence for why this was the right decision. “I have an entire city right here.”  
  


In the background, he could hear Lawrence sigh, a disappointed, hollow sound. 

  
It was all he needed. 

* * *

#####    
  


He didn’t know why his mind drifted back to his conversation with Lawrence. 

Lawrence was _wrong_ , that was all. He was wrong and Escalus was right. He tapped his pen against his desk, the metal clinking rhythmically as he thought. 

“Your Highness?” Lord Montague faltered.  
  
“Hm?” Escalus turned, hand still propping up his chin. Then, he jumped to attention, remembering to act like he was interested in whatever the man was saying. “You were saying something?”

“I said I think that it’s very odd that, with the way that my ancient rival’s made no secret about carrying on with half the women of Verona, Juliet Capulet’s an only child.” 

Oh, it was another game of _He started it_ and _I’m not touching him_. Hm, better words than daggers, at least. Though Mercutio and Paris were easier to control than two grown men who had had thirty years between them to grow up. 

“Oh, that.” 

“What do you think?”  
  
“I think that it’s very odd,” he droned. After the initial, brutal cold that came after the first blast, killing crops worldwide, the earth’s climate had seemed to change its mind for later generations, swinging to a constant, humid heat that seemed to hang over the air at all times, boiling the ground below during the day. In twelve hours, it would be different, gusting, bitter winds and, when it did rain, icy raindrops that cut the skin like knives. For now, though, the window to his office was notched upwards, enough for the air outside to provide what little comfort it could, while he made use of some old, scrapped legislation as a fan. All that still did little to help the sweat forming at his brow. None of which was helped by the hot air coming from Lord Montague’s lungs. 

“Surely you can see the connection. If he can’t produce a daughter with a dozen women-” 

He held up a hand, closing his eyes. “I should just as soon _not_ imagine too much of Lord Capulet’s private activities, or what he does or...doesn’t do to create a child.” 

“Do you believe she’s his daughter?”

That Lady Capulet had an affair at some point was no news. Even if he didn’t know about it, he had a hundred people plying the information readily like wandering scrap merchants. That Juliet Capulet was the result of it...less certain. And not something to be discussed. The girl was the pearl of Lord Capulet’s world, regardless. He had watched her grow from a baby to a young girl who floated through Capulet territory (Tybalt always at her side, the boy never far removed from his knife), to a bright young woman who was already starting to show signs of the elegance of her mother when she was younger. 

He didn’t understand the deep tug of...something in his chest. He had his nephews, of course, and they were as good as any sons he could have produced himself, even if Mercutio alone was responsible for most of his gray hairs. But they had only come to live with him after the accident that took their father’s life, and they were 13 and 11 then. Young still, _children_ , children who had seen _too much_ of the world they lived in, but not- 

Hm, this was too complicated. And he would see Lawrence to discuss it, but he knew that the other man would be too smug over having him admit that, yes, he was an average man, the same as any other. Sometimes, he wanted...things. Things that were ultimately unnecessary. 

Things that would, in the end, only cause him trouble and heartbreak. 

Confession was much, much harder when it was being done over a cup of coffee in the comfort of one’s own home as opposed to the confessional. 

“ _He_ does. That’s enough.” 

* * *

#####    
  


“Hey, Uncle, have you ever thought about getting laid?” Mercutio sat on the arm of his antique couch, one leg swinging in the air. When he was a toddler, his parents occasionally taking him and Valentine to Escalus’ for a few hours while they went out, the couch had been his personal playground, crawling along all sides of it and pretending to be various animals. Now, as an (alleged) adult, it was clear he’d never entirely kicked the habit. 

He tried to stifle the groan that threatened to rise. No, that would be giving Mercutio what he wanted. He wanted a response, and so he wouldn’t give him one. 

It would only encourage him, anyway. 

“No, Mercutio, never,” he said. “I made a sacred vow to the unicorns when I took office. My power is sustained only by my ongoing virginity, and I have never looked at anyone in my life.” 

On the other side of the couch, Paris sat, giving a satisfied smile as he fiddled with his phone. “That’s strange, it doesn’t seem like a very good way for the line to continue. How did our grandfather do it?” 

“He’s joking, Paris.” Mercutio rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “Or trying to.”

“Oh!” Paris said. “Uncle, which selfie do you think is better? This one-” he showed his phone, which was his third in as many months after a series of rather humiliating trips and falls (reports that Tybalt Capulet had been spotted moments before the event on at least one occasion were, for the time being, unfounded) “Or this one?” 

One day, Escalus would formally recommend that Paris’ selfies be used as a vision test, for all he was able to tell the difference. Both of them featured him mid-hair flip, arms on his hips in a way that was supposed to look heroic, the only main difference was that one held a slightly cooler tint than the other. 

“The second one, I think?” 

“Ah, excellent choice!” Paris said. “Lord Capulet will like the warmer one anyway, and it does a _much_ better job showing off my cheekbones.” 

“My congratulations to the two of you,” Escalus gave a tight smile. 

“If he supports me, then there’s no _way_ that Juliet would say no. We’ll be married in two weeks!” 

“Poor thing,” Mercutio said, eyes down to his own phone. 

“I suppose you’re texting your _Montague_?” Paris asked. 

Mercutio patted Paris’ arm, nodding his head in mock sympathy. “Some of us don’t need good selfies.”

“You-” 

“So, Uncle,” Mercutio smiled innocently, as if his cousin wasn’t considering murder on the other side of the couch. “With the two of us settling down, you’ll be lonely. Sure, there’s always Val, but he’s locked up in his room all day.” 

“You have a very strange way of saying ‘Enjoying the first hour of peace I’ve had since the three of you came to live here.’” 

It was strange, thinking of it. Having hours to himself in his study without going to investigate every mysterious crash in the pantry. Possibly getting to read a chapter of a book a night, if he wanted to. Not waiting up until the early hours of the morning for Mercutio to stumble home. 

He'd never really considered it before, all the hours of his day that he’d quietly devoted to the three of them (mostly Mercutio, but still). Suddenly freed, with nothing planned. There seemed to be a sort of….vastness to it, like going to the city wall and staring out at the wasteland between Verona and Mantua and seeing sand and the petrified corpses of trees that had once formed a forest, an endless sea of dirt suffocated beneath a hazy brown sky. 

“You’ll miss having something to do. You’ve gotten used to having us in the house, then suddenly there’s nothing. So, if you can't do _something_ , you might as well do _someone_ .”  
  
His hand came midway to his massage his forehead before he wrenched it away. No, no encouraging him. “And why are you so concerned with my personal life?” 

“Come on, someone’s got to keep you on your toes when I’m gone.”  
  
“I’m sure I can manage.” Taking his go-to book for quiet evenings, he sat in between the two of them, legs propped up on the velvet ottoman that his grandfather had bought in a rare moment of extravagance, neatly disrupting Paris’ dreams of murder.

Mercutio scowled. “You’re reading a _law book_.”

“Which might do you very well, if the reports I’m hearing from some of the Capulets are any judge.” It had taken all of the influence he had, as well as the promise of a sound scolding, to get Mercutio out of _that_ one. 

“For _FUN_.” 

“Uncle Escalus’ love life is none of our concern,” Paris puffed himself up, nearly falling over in the process. “I’m sure that he’s had a variety of interesting and skilled lovers.”  
  
Mercutio pulled a face that looked, roughly, like he had when he was 5 years old and someone tried to get him to eat a brussel sprout, which in turn had led to him lobbing it at Paris while Valentine hid beneath the table. “Anyway.” He exaggeratedly slapped his knees as he rose off the couch. “I’m out.” 

“What? _Now_?” Paris asked. 

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a popular guy. Good luck on the selfies, I’m sure you and Lord C will be _great_ together.” 

“Don’t get into trouble,” Escalus said, already anticipating a late night. 

Mercutio paused at the door, only halfway turning as he threw his arms up. “I never get _into_ trouble, I just sometimes take a detour there and enjoy the scenery.” 

“Be back by midnight,” Escalus said, before sighing, knowing that it was likely to be useless. “And give Benvolio Montague my regards.” 

A smile, a genuine smile, not the mischievous smirk or the devilish grin, stole onto Mercutio’s face, before he covered it with his arm. “Will do.” 

“Well, I’m going to plan for my meeting with Lord Capulet tomorrow,” Paris dramatically flung himself out of his seat, in case anyone had missed his announcement. 

“Good luck, cuz,” Mercutio said, “Make sure you show him your cheekbones, and if nothing else, bribery goes a long way.”  
  
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Paris brightened up, running past the cement-reinforced stairs to his room, which was easily noticeable by the flickering tube lights twisted to form the name “Paris” in cursive. 

Mercutio chuckled to himself, throwing a hand up to say goodbye as he disappeared into the night. 

Escalus, still collapsed in the couch, listened to their retreating footsteps, and there it was again, that same something he’d felt when he’d listened to Lord Montague go on about Juliet. 

A hand absently ran along the somewhat faded green velvet of the cushion, brushing against a seam that had been stitched together in his father’s time. Since the great explosion, things were replaced far, far less than they had once been. Perhaps, a century or so ago, people could afford to replace things like this at the littlest scratch. Now, they had to prioritize. Things weren’t made as easily, things weren’t broken as easily, except by fools.

No. It wasn’t worth it. He turned his attention back to his book, eyes skimming across the black and white text, all the letters black and bold and easy to pin down clearly, the letters he’d striven to live his life by. 

Getting….attached to someone- _Anyone_. It was too dangerous. He didn’t know why he was considering it. The three boys were trouble enough. Would be trouble enough, if Mercutio kept refusing to keep his mouth shut for more than two seconds.

But….

He listened to the clock on the mantelpiece silently tick, an endless, tedious repetition, the only sound in the silent house. (It was only barely interrupted by the sound of a crash coming from Paris’ room, followed by an “AHA!”) Outside, the wind knocked against the outside of the house, though hardly enough to do any damage. (It had survived a nuclear explosion already; some wind was hardly going to do it in.) 

It would be nice, he allowed himself to think, if he had someone to turn to face. Someone to talk about a particularly interesting, outdated law that no one even could explain the reason for. (“Did you know,” he might tell his shadow, “That it’s actually illegal to play pinball after 10 PM?” And that shadow might laugh with him.) Someone to talk about his day to, or to listen to a voice that didn’t want the Prince’s help or favor. 

Someone to distract him and break his heart when they weren’t there anymore, either because they realized that the only spouse he could take was Verona and left him or because they died. (God knew it wouldn’t be the first time that a prince’s consort was assassinated by one of the rival city states, hungry for resources and power.) 

He turned his full attention to his book, blaming Lawrence's influence for it. It was ridiculous, anyway. Who would he even choose, if he wanted to? Lawrence was his only real friend in the city, he hardly wanted to go through the trouble of finding someone else, and it was hard to imagine bringing someone else _in_.

Some part of his mind, a part that he wasn't used to, wondered if Lawrence would be jealous, despite suggesting it. Or, it suggested again, a paralyzing venom oozing into his heart at the thought, perhaps that was the real reason he had wanted Escalus to find someone. He had gotten tired of being burdened with him.

Escalus banished the thought quickly. That wasn't Lawrence, that was pure paranoia. And none of it mattered, anyway. 

He was perfectly fine on his own, so the close resemblance of any hypothetical partner of his with Lawrence was absolutely useless. 

* * *

#####    
  


“Have you considered what I suggested?” Lawrence rifled through a variety of plants. They were on his territory now, not the confessional, or even the cathedral, with its empty windows, dominated by a large crucifix in the center of the hall (preserved through the blast, it was said, by a miracle). 

“I have,” he said. He could have lied, he knew. Said that, no, he hadn’t. But Lawrence would know, he always _would_. Just like when they were boys. And it was far worse to get caught in a lie than to come out with it. 

“And?”  
  
“Unnecessary.” 

Lawrence shook his head, taking the plants to his computer, bending over intently to look at the glaring screen. On the other side of the desk, a cup of coffee perched precariously close, and Escalus could see a thousand ways that a misplaced elbow could send it flying across the oh-so-vulnerable keyboard. “A man needs more than bread and water to sustain him.”  
  


Escalus walked over, taking one of them in hand, a benign looking yellow flower, twisting the stem thoughtfully between his fingers. “St. John’s Wort. Generally used to treat symptoms of depression.”  
  
“That it is, you have a good eye.”  
  
Escalus looked at him deliberately, intently, so that his point was made. “And, when consumed by animals, particularly grazing animals, it’s dangerous, and can cause a number of side effects in humans.” He tossed it back onto the pile. 

“If you don’t open yourself to any risk, if you don’t hold anyone close to you, how can you ever feel warm? Not even in a romantic, worldly sense, but spiritually, emotionally?” 

Escalus allowed himself to chuckle, leaning forward as his hand still laid flat against the pile of plant samples. “Is this the new doctrine of the Church, then?”  
  
“There was a saying in Ancient China that I believe applies here: The mountains are high, and the emperor is far away. Here in Verona, we have to adapt ourselves to the spirit, not the letter, of the Church.”  
  
“You’re halfway to sparking a Reformation, I’ll have to lock you in the city jail so you don’t cause a public outburst.”  
  
“But then they would be united on one thing, wouldn’t they?” Lawrence absently reached for one of the plants, eyes still locked on the computer screen, only for his hand to brush against Escalus’. For a moment, both stood there, stunned. 

While a certain….closeness, friendship existed between the two of them, very rarely did it cross the line of physical. Across over four decades of knowing Lawrence, he couldn’t think of one time he had ever…. _touched_ him. Or vice versa. That they were allied was natural, as the two most senior citizens of Verona completely untied to the feud, they were, in some ways, the only ones they each could go to on occasion. But some boundaries were strict for a reason. 

“I’d rather that ‘one thing’ not being ‘chasing the rebellious priest out of the city,’” Escalus said, pulling his hand away far slower than he had meant to, the touch like a lightning bolt, and he found himself pulled into that point of contact more, further. (When _had_ he last touched someone?)

“Tell me, Father,” he said, trying to regain his hold over the conversation, grasping at his own cup of coffee. “If it’s so important to you, why did you never marry?”

It had come after a long and fierce debate in the Catholic Church, one that threatened a schism, but after the explosion, the Earth’s population had been so stricken, so devastated, that the Catholic Church had decided that “Be fruitful and multiply” would have to take precedence over the urgings of St. Paul. Priests could marry and have children, provided that, should their children choose their father’s vocation, they never be in a situation where nepotism would be an issue. 

“Oh….” Lawrence closed the laptop, sitting in the stool. “I suppose I never found the right person. These things are so _complicated_.”

“So, the great matchmaker doesn’t have a match for himself, does he?” 

Lawrence chuckled quietly, grabbing his own coffee, looking into the swirling brown mixture of bitter liquid and cream. “Once, perhaps. When I was younger. But he wanted something different, I understood, so I never pressed. I joined the Church shortly afterwards.” 

“You never told me this.” What was that…. _twisting_ in his chest? The thought of Lawrence with someone, anyone, spending quiet afternoons like this, possibly evenings and mornings as well, talking to him, telling him things that he didn’t tell Escalus, preferring him- 

It was as if he’d taken ten doses of that St. John’s Wort himself, his stomach turning in on itself. 

(He wants to be rid of you, the voice in his head said, again. All this time, his caring's been a ruse.)

“It was a long time ago. It never mattered. I’m sure he was completely unaware of how I felt. And,” he put the coffee back on the desk, only narrowly avoiding putting it square on the computer’s surface, “It worked out for the best. I found my calling.” 

Escalus gave a smile, finding it to be considerably more bitter than he intended. “We’re both married men. You have the Church, I have Verona.”

“The Church is workable. The more you know the rules, the more you...learn how to work with them so that you don’t break them. How to adapt,” he added, “Verona, though….Verona is a fickle mistress,” Lawrence said, “Sometimes she wears red, sometimes blue. No one should deal with it on their own.”

“And I can’t bring anyone else into it, not someone who wasn't born for it. I would be difficult enough to be married to, much less with Verona on top of it.”  
  
“Have you ever considered,” Lawrence looked at him, and Escalus hated that his eyes were kind, the laugh lines that stretched out of the corners of his eyes turned upwards (Escalus only had frown lines and dark circles beneath his eyes that felt etched in whenever he looked at himself in the mirror every morning) “That someone might be willing to take it? Completely of their own free will?” 

“Hm, and yet, of all of Verona, you are the only one who voluntarily spends time with me.” He moved to take a sip of the coffee, but added, “Besides begging for my help, of course.”  
  
“Of course.” Lawrence index finger stroked the rim of the cup, and Escalus found his eyes focusing on it, watching the back and forth motion. He’d never really looked at Lawrence’s hands before, noticed how dexterous they were, even after all these years, always quick and alert. “But I think you could be loved, if you let yourself be.” 

Deciding not to pursue whatever line of thinking he had been chasing, Escalus redirected his attention towards his coffee again, hoping that this would be over soon as he watched the fascinating colors that the coffee took on when he stirred it just so that it hit the light a certain way.

It only worked for a moment or two. 

The bitterness of the coffee did little to distract him from the conversation, whatever it was, and most of it was drained anyway. Soon, there would be little excuse for him not to meeting Lawrence’s eye and explain….whatever it was that had gotten into him. 

This was _Lawrence_ . His oldest...possibly _only_ friend. There was no reason for him to be feeling so many conflicting emotions suddenly. 

It was all his fault anyway. He'd made him _think_ of it.   
  
“I should go,” he said. “Thank you for the coffee, as always, but the affairs of the city can never rest for long.”  
  
“I would never want to keep you away from your partner,” Lawrence said, and-surely he'd imagined the note of bitterness in the word "partner." 

“You didn’t,” Escalus said, “It’s just-My head is suddenly lighter, I need to be back on _terra firma_ , I think.” He could regroup himself in his office, surrounded by books and files and things that were _solid_. 

“Do you need any help getting home?” Lawrence said, his hands blazing even through the thick gray coat Escalus wore as he tried to guide him to the door, and it would have been so much easier if he didn’t _care_ so much. 

“No, I can manage myself. Thank you.” He held up a hand, walking over the door. 

It would have been so easy, walking through there, leaving...whatever this had been to the room, but something had shifted, he didn’t know what. Something made him pause, like Lot’s wife (surely Lawrence would have liked the reference) or Orpheus, one step away from salvation but still too far for his own masochistic curiosity, which was seeping in far more than he would have liked. 

“The boy...what became of him? The one you loved all those years ago? You said that he wanted something different.” 

Lawrence stepped away, and, despite only a few feet more separating them, if felt as if it was a league. There was a long, pregnant pause, and in that space of time, an eternity of possibilities hung in the air. 

Was he still there, in the city? Did Lawrence see him every day? One of his parishioners, now married with a family? Had he died? 

Lawrence folded his hands, looking down at the floor. “He became the Prince of Verona.” 

Escalus looked at him in shock, the realization creeping straight into his heart, even as his brain could scarcely register what he'd heard. There were no other princes of Verona, it had to be him, he was-It wasn't a joke, either, he knew every single tone that Lawrence could make, from the warm chuckle to the stern lecture to the rare, barking laugh when he was totally relaxed to the soft, gentle voice he used for the hurting and the lost. This was not the voice he used for joking, there was no trace of amusement in his voice. Just a deep well of regret, and a pain that had stretched on for decades. 

“For that long?” He stammered. All his years in office, he thought that he had seen everything, but not this. This was something entirely different, something he’d never planned for. The thing he’d dreaded wasn’t there, but it was replaced by something that he couldn’t place.  
  
“From the beginning.”

All these years…

Then, “Goodbye, Your Highness.” 

Dazed, uncertain of what to say or do, Escalus found himself stumbling into sanctuary, temporarily blinded by the light pouring in from the bare, broken windows. 

* * *

#####    
  


His study was simple, more or less heirloom artifacts built up by the family throughout the years. A mahogany desk with scorch marks - one of the few surviving pieces of furniture from the explosion, a matching swivel chair that had one uneven leg. (When he had been younger, he and his brother and sister had made the place their playground; Escalus always hid underneath the desk in the belief that this time, no one would guess where he was.) 

A stack of books lined the walls, comparatively few, but, with the way things were, even a few leather-bound books came at a high price, given that Verona didn’t have any bookbinders of its own. No, it was necessary to get those shipped in specially from Florence, with all the cost implied. An atlas (of a world that no longer existed), two or three law books, Plutarch’s _Lives_ , _Paradise Lost_ (the latter two were his family’s bedtime stories, when he was a child; it had been at his father’s knee that he’d first learned of ambitious men and civil wars that tore apart Heaven, and then it had been as a boy watching blood flow through the streets of Verona that he had learned that they weren’t just stories), and Caesar’s _Gallic War_. And there, in the center, a hand-bound book of prayer, illuminated in glorious colors and personally inscribed by Lawrence. It had been a present, for his 25th birthday, and he still remembered running his hands along the lettering, caring more for the thought Lawrence had put _thought_ into it than even the illustrations within it. 

And there, in the center of the room, a chess set, figures in blue and red marble facing one another across a board of stark white and black, all of it mined and exported from the city of Carrara. It had been his own commission, on his ascension to power after his father decided to retire and enjoy the years he had left in whatever peace anyone could ever find in Verona. (The younger generation favored it, rather than the desk; Mercutio in particular enjoyed scattering the figures around, making little pantomimes with them. Of the three of them, Valentine was the only one who bothered to learn how to actually play chess.) He remembered the day he got it, actually, he'd invited Lawrence over, and they had played the first game there, a single off-beat question of Lawrence's distracting him enough for the friar to take the game. 

Here, surrounded by things that were familiar, things that were his and his family’s, he could think, his mind drowning in itself. 

The truth was, whenever he considered his lack of a romantic life, he had considered it in terms of him. It had never been worth the risk for _him_ , so he’d stayed away from getting attached, it had been inconvenient for _him_ to consider the possibility that, years before, he might have been developing feelings and simply not realized it, so he hadn’t. Any time he had drawn too close to Lawrence, to anyone, he pulled away as quickly as possible in case _he_ got stung. 

All this time, he’d never considered that someone else might factor into the decision, someone other than him and Verona. 

But Lawrence loved him. Had for years, since they were boys. 

And he had been oblivious, all these years. Had never questioned whether he had wants and hopes and fears of his own, had taken for granted that he would be by his side forever. His mind grasped at every memory, every glance, every time they’d spoken, everything suddenly in a new light. 

And now….well, he had a choice to make. Nothing so easy as making a political decision, ordering a Capulet gang member off of a Montague or vice versa. Those didn’t take a moment’s notice, the words second nature after years of practice. 

No, this was a _personal_ decision, and that made it all the harder. 

His finger slammed down on the lock button of his phone. 

It would be more useful if Lawrence was willing to answer him. Over a week, and the other man had seemed to drop off from the known world. Three emails, the first more informal, with the usual comfortable distance between them, thanking him, again for coffee and inquiring about when they were going to meet again, the second more terse and formal, before switching back to informal, asking simply to _see_ him. Then, two calls that had been left to ring, the second cut short mid-ring. 

There was….a gap there, that he hadn’t anticipated. Being used to having SOMEONE there, all the time, and then Not, knowing that he was somewhere, in the city, living his life, and he’d decided to pull away. (Strange, he hadn’t even drawn consciously closer to Lawrence, and he still had the power to hurt him.) Any time he had a problem, Escalus was _there_ , ready for a quiet chat in the dead of night, where they could shake off their demons together. And now…

It was like some part of his own soul had been stripped away. 

Fine. He would deal with this kind of thing the old fashioned way. He grabbed a note pad and pencil, settling down on his desk, scribbling down whatever came to mind. 

Did he care for Lawrence? 

Yes. 

Did he love him? 

His pencil hovered over the paper, then stilled. More complicated, given that he had very few standards to go off of. It wasn’t like in movies, or books. It wasn’t swooning, boy’s love. It wasn’t lust. 

He chose to rephrase it, erasing all but “did” and “he” before starting again. 

Did he feel his heart squeeze at the thought of him with someone else? 

He thought back to their earlier conversation, before he’d realized who Lawrence had been talking about. It had felt like he was going to have a heart attack, something inescapable, painful, the feeling of someone he didn’t even know having the ability to utterly destroy his peace of mind. 

_Yes_.

Did he want a relationship? Love was one thing, relationships were another. In ten years, would he regret gambling everything and possibly losing everything, including one of-his only real friends in the world?

_“If you don’t open yourself to any risk, if you don’t hold anyone close to you, how can you ever feel warm? Not even in a romantic, worldly sense, but spiritually, emotionally?”_

Astonishing, even when Lawrence was refusing to speak to him, he was able to admonish him. He would have been an excellent teacher, if he hadn’t-he swallowed. That had been _his_ decision. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his desk. Did he want _this_ ? Or was this all at the right time?  
  
 _Yes_ and _yes_. It seemed ridiculous thinking of relationships, when Lawrence wasn’t even speaking to him, when he was somehow further away from it than before he had even considered a relationship as a possibility for him. 

He stared at what he’d just written, unable to believe that his own fingers hadn’t gripped the pencil that marked the page. The evenly lined yellow paper looked so innocuous, as if the steel-colored words within hadn’t turned his world on its head. 

He sighed. Now to figure out how to get Lawrence to stop ignoring him and talk over their problems over adults.

The answer, as it happened, came from Paris. 

“Uncle, you would not believe the news!” He bounded into the room, causing Escalus to almost leap onto the ceiling and dig his claws into it like a frightened cat. 

“Paris!” Escalus hissed, “The study!” 

“I’m sorry,” Paris whispered, “I forgot about your growlery.”  
  
“This isn’t my growlery,” Escalus growled. “This is my study, where I work. On things relating to my job. As Prince.” Quietly, he moved the notepad out of Paris’ line of sight, letting it drop onto the floor by his chairl. 

“I understand,” Paris said, “You have to want to growl at a lot of people. The job must be very taxing especially given that in the last year, there have been twice as many casualties of the feud as normal. Oh, did you drop that?” He pointed at the notepad. 

Why, why did he have to be blessed with a nephew who was only observant at the worst possible time? 

“Yes, I...suppose I did.” 

“Oh, let me pick that up for you!” Paris leant down to get it, his long, glittery coat pooling around him. “Ah!” He presented it to Escalus, squinting, “Hm, it doesn’t look like state business.” 

Escalus snatched it away very quickly, in a manner very much like what he believed a dragon protecting its hoard would look like. “Thank you. That was….my speech. For the opening of the new. Gymnasium.” Before Paris decided to question whether Verona was, in fact, getting a new gymnasium, he decided to act quickly. “And your news?”  
  
“Oh, I almost totally forgot!” Paris straightened out his coat. “Uncle, Juliet Capulet will be my wife.”  
  
Escalus nodded his head, slowly. “So, she’s agreed.” That was quick, but, given that by all accounts, Lord Capulet was a desperate man, his hand might have been forced early.  
  
Paris gave a nervous, stammering chuckle, teetering back and forth. “Not in so many words, no.”  
  
“Her father-”  
  
Instantly, Paris brightened, all his confidence puffing him up. “Ah, I’m one step away from calling him “Daddy!””

Of everything. Every phrase he could have possibly used. He had to- _Why-_ But, it was _Paris_. 

Paris continued on, thankfully, sparing Escalus’ poor, battered brain any further images, “He does think that it would be better to wait several years; he believes Juliet’s _too young_. But, there are other women who have been happy to be married at her age. And, with the Capulet’s fortune in the decline, it will be no trouble to sweep her away, once the formalities are through with. And, of course, I’m sure I’ll have no problems at the ball.” 

“Ball?” 

“Lord Capulet’s throwing a ball for me and Juliet! Well, it had been planned before, but the idea is that I woo her in disguise, so that she might accept easier. I will be the picture of charm,” he brushed his blonde bang away from his face, only for it to fall back into place. “He had considered inviting you, but I told him that it’s impossible, that you only go to these things when you’re forced to, and you would probably rather spend your time with a law book-” 

“I changed my mind,” Escalus stood up. This was an absolutely mad, insane scheme. But, if Lawrence was refusing to speak to him in any ordinary way, then the best place to find him would be at a place where the Prince would never go. “Go to him. And tell him to invite Friar Lawrence as well.” 

“You know as well as I do that he never attends these things, either. I would think that you would have a better job with that. You're always spending time with him.”  
  
“I can’t. Just-Tell him that there will be free wine and plenty of places to hide away in. Please, Paris.” He touched his nephew’s arm gently, and Paris looked at him in shock. (A certain weariness fell over him, as he looked back on the years, at the time that had passed. Had he really touched his nephews so little, all these years?)

“Whatever you want, Uncle.” Paris said, taking his arm. “Are you alright?” 

“I will be, I hope,” Escalus gave a brave smile, the one he generally reserved for natural disasters. “When this is over.”  
  
“Oh, but my _costume_ ,” Paris said. 

“You can use as much of my money as you want.”  
  
“You mean that?” 

With no small amount of nervousness, Escalus nodded his head. He could calculate it in his head already, all the tiny expenses Paris would insist on now that he had an unlimited budget. But….it would be worth it. 

It was one time, anyway. No matter how much he tried, Paris could not, in fact, bankrupt him with _one_ costume.  
  
“Thank you, Uncle Escalus!” He shook the arm until Escalus could almost hear it creaking, threatening to fall off. “I will get it to him so fast that he won’t even remember I left the house! I'll travel back in time, even, to our first conversation!” 

“Just...see to it that he gets the message.”  
  
Paris saluted, making to run out of the room before tripping over his coat in his excitement. 

“And Paris?” Escalus asked.  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
He hesitated, knowing that it was likely to fall on deaf ears but not able to stay silent either. “A marriage where one partner doesn’t want it...they never end well. If you have to wait a year or two, so be it. These things can take time.”  
  
 _Decades, even_. 

“Ah, but she will! I’ll make sure of it! There’s no reason for her not to. And, with her noble father and saintly mother’s permission, she’ll be a glad bride.”

“If she chooses someone else, though-”  
  
“Ah, but if not me?” Paris smiled, so slickly that, for a moment, he didn’t recognize the little boy who had always insisted on sitting on his lap when his parents came to visit . “Then who?” 

“Be that as it may…” Escalus held a hand out. 

“As you say, Uncle,” Paris said. 

Not thirty minutes later, an invitation arrived, with a Capulet seal and gilt, rushed lettering on red paper. He held it between his gloved fingers, hoping, for the first time in his life, that he knew what he was doing. 

#####    
  


* * *

#####    
  


“Ah, Your Highness,” Lord Capulet greeted him, striding down the stairs, “We were so honored that you could make it.”  
  
Escalus nodded stiffly, already feeling out of his element. 

In prior times, the Capulet manor had been a great warehouse, and signs of it still lingered, even as they’d been glossed over, with lights that flashed every color gridding over former shelving units, and every square inch of it was crammed with people, stumbling back and forth, making the cement floor slippery with spilled champagne. 

He leaned over to Lord Capulet, even though he didn’t know why. In the noise that seemed to reverberate along the floor and walls, he doubted anyone could hear him. “Did you-” 

“Yes, of course, whatever Your Highness suggested. Here,” he grabbed some champagne from a nearby servant’s tray, “Take some. I heard from your nephew, only in the most discrete way, of course, that you might be in need of company, and if you want to meet with any woman here, I can give you a fantastic recommendation. That one over there, for example-”  
  
Escalus gave a polite smile. “Thank you. I will certainly...keep that in mind.” He had heard enough about Lord Capulet's personal life when they were young men together, he had no desire to hear more.

 _Paris_.

Well, he had done his job diligently. _Too_ diligently, but diligently. 

“Is Friar Lawrence here already?” 

“He is! He arrived here not long before you,” Lord Capulet led him to a corner, just in time to see Lawrence sipping a glass of wine, looking perfectly content to blend into the featureless cement. An entirely natural, unguarded smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. 

_Lawrence_. 

As always with him, his idea of a disguise was a blunt attempt at subtlety. His mask covered most of his face, and what little that might have been been exposed was covered with a long hood. However, he still wore his full robe, as if the mask alone would protect his identity. 

Quietly, Escalus approached him, the echo of his footsteps muffled by the music, until he was standing directly by Lawrence’s side, witnessing the party from a cool distance, at everyone dancing and laughing, totally unguarded in the safety of their masks. 

He waited until Lawrence had raised his glass of wine to his lips to speak. 

“This certainly brings back memories.” 

The glass shattered in a thousand crashing stars beneath their feet. “Your Highness-I didn’t know-” He looked around frantically, turning to run only to come face to face with a wall.  
  
“No,” Escalus said, “Or you never would have come.” 

“I-”  
  
At the disbelieving tilt of Escalus’ head, Lawrence’s shoulders slumped (how much he’d forgotten, that just as much as he knew Escalus, Escalus knew him as well). “Yes. I’ve looked deep into my soul, and I’ve accepted it. You love Verona, more than anyone else.” He gave a chuckle, one that spoke more of bitter pain than mirth. “More than I could have ever hoped you would love me.” He continued, “And now it’s all out. You know. I know. It seemed better for both our sakes that I save you the awkwardness, since I know how much you hate it.” 

“You were right,” Escalus said, three of the single most difficult words to string together. “I’ve been thinking over the last week or so as well, and I realize that...I do need company. I do need...warmth.”

“Oh?”  
  
Escalus was not a merciful man. No one who had ever been judged by him and found wanting had ever described him as “merciful.” He had never tried to be merciful. Rulers described as “merciful” tended to be described as “late” in a year or two’s time. And with the Capulets and Montagues in particular, no good came of letting them have free reign over the city while appealing to his _mercy_. 

No, he strove to be _just_. For every act of disobedience, there needed to be a punishment, for every act of loyalty, there needed to be a reward, everything perfectly balanced on a scale, like the pharaohs of Egypt having their heart weighed against a feather. (He knew, at this point, if he was put to the test, it would be devoured. But he would let his heart and soul get devoured if it let his city sleep at night.) 

So, while it might not have been merciful to torture Lawrence a little further, it was, perhaps, _just_ to punish him a small amount for refusing to speak to his prince. 

“Yes, I’ve actually thought a great deal about it. And, of course, my nephew Mercutio believes that I need to…” the words felt, roughly, like dental paste in his mouth, stilted, awkward, and making him want to gag, “‘Get laid.’ And Lord Capulet has generously offered to find me a partner, however I thought that you might be of some use, given that you are, of course, in charge of my spiritual development, and it was your idea from the beginning.”  
  
“My…”  
  
“You were the one who suggested I find company, weren’t you?”  
  
“Yes-Yes,” Lawrence said, “I would be happy for you if you did. You do need something besides your job.”  
  
“Excellent. Here are the traits I’ve singled out: First, they have to be intelligent. I can’t keep any kind of company with someone who can’t keep up with me.”  
  
“That seems...worthy.”  
  


“Regular chess games are a necessity, as well as long conversations. I’m not a young man, I can’t be caught on the physical aspect alone, never could be. Second...the Prince of Verona keeps his share of secrets. Whoever I choose to see would be exposed to certain secrets of state, and so would need to be discrete. Likewise, I want my privacy respected.” 

“Sensible.” 

“Third, I want someone closer to my own age. I see men my age chasing after people half their age all the time, but I can hardly see the appeal. What would I really have in common with someone in their 20s?” He shuddered. “I have no wish to revisit that time in my life, even if it’s only by proxy. And I have enough of an imbalance with any option in rank alone, without adding age.”  
  
“That...that sounds very spiritually sound. The Lord did say that, in matters of marriage, they become one flesh, instead of two. It’s better, in that sense, to already have a sense of equality, as opposed to simply chasing after youth.” The words sounded empty, broken coming from Lawrence, and he knew that he didn’t mean them. Not when they were openly steering Escalus towards someone else. 

This had gone on long enough. While he couldn’t deny his nephew got...certain traits of his honestly, there was one place where he differed from Mercutio: He knew when to stop. And he’d not done this to cause Lawrence pain. 

  
“My thought exactly. Finally….” he paused. This was it. “I can’t stand meeting someone I barely know and trying to gauge how things would work. It would need to be someone that I already have a bond with, someone who I know I already trust and rely on.” His voice softened. “And have for decades.”  
  
Lawrence’s face softened, realization lighting his face along with doubt, “You don’t mean-” 

His hand brushed against Lawrence’s cheek, gently prying the mask off his face, and he couldn’t keep from smiling at the pleased, peaceful sigh that came from him then, as if all the worries left Lawrence’s body along with the breath. “This is exactly what I mean.” He took his own mask off and leant his forehead against Lawrence’s, exhaling deeply. The press of the other man’s forehead against his was somehow both blazing hot and refreshing and cool, like a splash of water on a sweltering day. 

They didn’t need a passionate, youthful kiss to say what they meant, it was there in the thrum beating beneath his skin, in Lawrence’s hands coming to anchor Escalus in place, and it was not the salvation that he talked of at the pulpit, but it was a different kind, the closest thing to true peace on Earth either had ever had in their lifetime. 

"I thought-" Lawrence shuffled, though didn't break from the hold, still continuing to hold him tightly, as if he was worried that he would drift away. "I thought you had decided not to care for anyone."

  
  
"I do care," for a moment, Escalus didn't know why his cheeks were wet, blaming an overly enthusiastic party guest for misting him with alcohol before realizing that he was crying, "I care, far more than I should." 

"It's no sin to love your fellow man," and there was Lawrence again, endlessly patient, ever the irritating, correct professor. "Quite the contrary, in fact." 

  
  
"It is a weakness, though." Before Lawrence moved to open his mouth, Escalus added, "But it's worth it." The truth, that he would firmly deny to anyone, was that, despite his best efforts, he was attached. His nephews, Lawrence, every person in the city, because how was it possible, really, to protect and love a city without loving the people in it? How could he believe in the best for the city of Verona without believing that the people, too, could be their best selves? Years of denial, and he could accept it; he was attached, deeply, the people around him buried into his heart like the roots of an ancient tree were buried in the ground. And when he had tried to sever them, he had almost discovered, too late, that he felt empty without them. 

Lawrence brushed his lips against Escalus' forehead at the statement and, for the first time in years, he felt the tension slide off of his body. There was something natural about being there, only anonymous by way of the sheer number of others around them, arms steady around one another as they slowly edged into an intimacy that was familiar and alien at the same time for both of them, something that made Escalus push his head ever so lightly against Lawrence's lips, so that it was followed by a second, and then a third. He could see days stretching forward, long winter mornings spent curled up against one another and humid summer evenings spent talking into the night as they always had, about anything either of them wanted, because they knew the other would listen no matter what. 

This was….terrifying, really. Still. A thousand things could still go wrong, and he was very aware that he was putting his heart on the line. But, somehow, there was an exhilaration that paired with the danger, the knowledge that there was something new in his life, something hopeful. Something that wasn’t Capulets or Montagues or an endless whirlpool of hatred. Something _his_. 

And, regardless of what was going to come, regardless of the possibility of pain and heartbreak, he had Lawrence by his side to face it with him, just like he always had.


End file.
